late, in careless rest, Protect that sleep, which I may watch no more, I, the cast out, dismissed and dispossessed. Far in the hillside camp, in slumber lies What my worn eyes worship but never see. Happier Stars! your myriad silver eyes Feast on the quiet face denied to me. Loved with a love beyond all words or sense, Lost with a grief beyond the saltest tear, So lovely, so removed, remote, and hence So doubly and so desperately dear! Stars! from your skies so purple and so calm, That through the centuries your secrets keep, Send to this worn-out brain some Occult Balm, Send me, for many nights so sleepless, sleep. And ere the sunshine of the Desert jars My sense with sorrow and another day, Through your soft Magic, oh, my Silver Stars! Turn sleep to Death in some mysterious way.

Reminiscence of Mahomed Akram

   I shall never forget you, never.  Never escape
   Your memory woven about the beautiful things of life.

   The sudden Thought of your Face is like a Wound
             When it comes unsought
   On some scent of Jasmin, Lilies, or pale Tuberose.
   Any one of the sweet white fragrant flowers,
   Flowers I used to love and lay in your hair.

   Sunset is terribly sad. I saw you stand
   Tall against the red and the gold like a slender palm;
   The light wind stirred your hair as you waved your hand,
   Waved farewell, as ever, serene and calm,
   To me, the passion-wearied and tost and torn,
   Riding down the road in the gathering grey.
             Since that day
   The sunset red is empty, the gold forlorn.

   Often across the Banqueting board at nights
   Men linger about your name in careless praise
   The name that cuts deep into my soul like a knife;
   And the gay guest-faces and flowers and leaves and